Chapter 7 #2
"ICU is covered under the emergency admission, but there are limits. Let me see..." Another pause. "Coverage is capped at seventy-two hours for the current diagnostic code. After that, additional review would be required to determine medical necessity."
"And if it's denied?"
"Then those charges would be the patient's responsibility." The voice remained pleasant, practiced. "I know this is difficult. Do you have any other questions about the policy?"
Serafina had one question. "What's the bottom line? Total out-of-pocket."
Silence. More typing. "I can only provide estimates, but based on the surgical quote and current ICU charges.
.. the policy would cover approximately forty to fifty thousand.
That's pending review. The remaining balance would be.
.." A pause that meant the number was bad.
"Approximately one hundred forty thousand, plus any additional ICU days beyond the covered period. "
One hundred forty thousand dollars. The surgery would happen—they couldn't refuse an emergency. But the debt would follow Aria out of this hospital and into the rest of her life.
Just like it had followed their mother into the grave.
"Thank you," Serafina said. "You've been very helpful."
She hung up and sat there for a while. The sun was bright and warm on her face. It didn't help.
Angelo arrived in the late morning.
Serafina saw him come through the sliding doors of the hospital entrance—rumpled shirt, stubbled jaw, paper coffee cup in hand that he'd probably been refilling at gas stations since three in the morning.
He walked the way he always walked, solid and deliberate, like a man who'd spent his life carrying heavy things and never complained about it.
He spotted her in the waiting area and crossed to her without hesitation.
"Sera."
She stood, and he pulled her into a hug—brief and hard, the kind that said everything without words. He smelled like coffee and highway and the familiar aftershave he'd worn for as long as she could remember.
He wasn't her father. Her father had died when she was nineteen, two years after her mother.
But Angelo had been married to her mother for six years before that, and he was Aria's father, and he'd never once treated Serafina like something left over from a previous life.
She was family. That was enough for him.
She thought of him like an uncle. Something without a clean name.
He released her and studied her face. Didn't ask if she was okay. He could see she wasn't.
"How is she?"
"Stable. Intubated. They're operating this afternoon—Dr. Rao moved up the surgery."
He nodded slowly. "Can I see her?"
"She's in ICU. They'll let you look through the window."
"Then that's what I'll do."
But he didn't move yet. He sat down in the chair beside her, heavily, like the drive had finally caught up with him. Up close, he looked older than the last time she'd seen him. Grayer. Thinner in a way that wasn't healthy.
Angelo was sixty-three. Short and stocky, built like a man who'd worked construction before his union job, then handyman work after.
Salt-and-pepper hair that needed a cut. Heavy brow, deep-set blue eyes, bushy eyebrows that made every expression more intense than he probably meant.
Hands thick with calluses, nails stained despite scrubbing.
Second-generation Italian-American, raised Catholic, lived practical.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he spoke.
"I gotta tell you something."
Serafina turned to look at him.
"My heart's gotten worse."
The words landed flat, matter-of-fact, the way Angelo delivered all news. She waited.
"The doc changed my medications about six months back. Newer stuff. Works better, costs more." He shrugged. "The pension covers what it covers. Doesn't stretch to the new pills."
"How much more?"
"Eight, nine hundred a month. More if you count the other stuff." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I been stretching it. Skipping days. That's why I'm worse."
Serafina felt the ground shift beneath her. Another weight added to the pile. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Aria's in school. You got your own life. What was I gonna do, add to the pile?" His blue eyes were steady, unapologetic. "I handled my own problems for sixty-three years. Wasn't about to stop."
She wanted to argue. She didn't. What would be the point?
She thought of her mother's final months—the bills piling up, Angelo working himself into the ground, refusing to ask for help until help wouldn't have mattered anyway. He hadn't changed. He never would.
Angelo was quiet for a moment. Then he straightened in his chair, the way he did when he'd made a decision.
"I'm selling the house."
Serafina went still.
"It's paid off," he continued. "Only thing I got worth anything. Three bedrooms, decent neighborhood. Needs work, but I could get three-fifty, maybe four hundred if I'm lucky." He met her eyes. "Whatever you need for Aria. You take it."
"No."
The word came out harder than she meant it to.
Angelo's brow furrowed. "Sera—"
"No." She turned to face him fully. "That house is Aria's childhood.
Her room is still there—the purple walls she picked when she was thirteen, the bookshelf you built her.
That's where she learned to ride a bike.
Even after the divorce, she spent every other weekend there. We did. Summers. Holidays."
Angelo's jaw tightened. "A house is just walls. Aria is—"
"If she wakes up from surgery and finds out you sold her childhood to pay for it, that's a weight she'll carry the rest of her life. I won't let you put that on her."
"It's not your call."
"Then I'm making it mine." Her voice was steady now, the voice she used when she wasn't going to bend. "I'm working on something. I have a lead on funding. I just need time."
He studied her for a long moment. Didn't believe her—she could see it in his eyes. But he also knew that look on her face. He'd seen it before.
"What do you need from me, then?"
"Take your medications. All of them, every day. Keep your heart stable." She held his gaze. "Be here for her when she wakes up. That's the job."
Angelo was quiet. Then he nodded once, slow and heavy.
"Okay, Sera." He pushed himself to his feet. "Show me where she is."
She led him to the ICU window. Watched him stand there, one hand pressed to the glass, looking at his daughter through the barrier. He didn't speak. Neither did she.
After a while, she left him there and went to find a chair where she could sit alone.
Aria's phone buzzed in Serafina's pocket.
She'd been carrying it since the ambulance—Aria's whole life compressed into a slim rectangle, now dark and silent except for the occasional notification. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
UC San Diego Office of Financial Aid.
She hesitated. Then answered.
"Hello?"
"This is Rebecca Chen calling from UC San Diego Financial Aid. May I speak with Aria Rossi?"
"This is her sister. Aria is—" Serafina paused. "She's in the hospital. Emergency surgery. Is there something I can help with?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that." The voice shifted to professional sympathy. "I was calling to follow up on her enrollment status. We received notice of her medical withdrawal from this semester's coursework."
"She's been sick. It got worse."
"I understand completely. I just need to inform you that her scholarship requires continuous enrollment and minimum academic standing.
Given her incomplete coursework this semester, the scholarship committee has reviewed her file and, unfortunately, has declined to renew funding for her final year. "
Serafina closed her eyes.
"As a courtesy," the voice continued, "the university will honor her current semester's funding. But her P4 year—tuition, fees, and associated costs—would need to be self-funded. That's approximately forty-five thousand dollars."
"Forty-five thousand."
"Yes. I'm very sorry. When Aria is recovered, she should contact our office to discuss loan options and payment plans. We want to help her complete her degree."
"Thank you," Serafina said. "I'll let her know."
She hung up and stared at the phone.
One hundred forty thousand for the surgery. ICU costs climbing by the hour. Now forty-five thousand more for Aria's final year.
Even if her sister survived. Even if she recovered completely. The future Aria had worked toward for three years was slipping away.
Serafina set the phone down on the chair beside her. Carefully. Like it might shatter.
Her own phone rang an hour later.
Los Angeles area code. Her landlord's number.
She already knew, before she answered, that it wouldn't be good. Good news didn't come in clusters. Bad news did.
"Ms. Montecristo? This is David Chen, from your building."
"What happened."
A pause. "There was a fire. Last night, early this morning. Electrical, started in the walls of 2B, spread fast. Your unit and two others... I'm sorry. They're gone."
Gone.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No, everyone got out. Thank God." He sounded shaken. "The building's gutted on the east side. Fire marshal has to clear it before anyone can go back in. Structural assessment, the whole thing. Weeks, at least."
"My things?"
"Total loss. I'm sorry. If you have renter's insurance, you should file a claim. I can send you the incident report when it's available."
"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate you calling."
She hung up and sat very still.
Her apartment. The one she'd lived in for six years.
Not much—a one-bedroom in a building that had seen better decades, furniture she'd bought secondhand, walls she'd never bothered to decorate.
But it was hers. Her anchor point. The place she came back to after shifts that ended at two in the morning and cases that didn't end at all.
She thought about what had been inside.